Misplaced
by nova A
Summary: Grissom, Sara, and Greg get lost on their way to a crime scene. Hilarity ensues! Humor, GSG friendship. No spoilers to speak of. This is what happens when I write too much angst and need a break. Loopy time! Complete.
1. Part 1

**Introduction:** So I've been working on this really angsty story (not sure yet if I want to post it) and I had to do something different. This is the result. It is admittedly silly. We all need a laugh every now and then, right?

**Disclaimer:** Dear producers of CSI: If you don't get mad that I'm using your characters in slightly ridiculous situations, I'll try my hardest to forgive you for breaking up the team. Sound like a deal?

**Misplaced**  
By nova A

"Hey Grissom," Greg said. "Give me a noun."  
Grissom raised his eyebrows and regarded Greg in the rearview mirror.  
Greg let out a whoosh of breath. "Okaaaay… Sara. How about it? A noun?"

"All right, Greg," Sara said, sounding amused. "Mmmm…'investigation?'"

"Innnnvestigaaation." Greg wrote it in with a flourish.

"Do you really keep Mad Libs in your kit?" Sara asked, twisting in her seat to look back at Greg.

"Right under my latex gloves," He replied proudly. "Everybody loves Mad Libs. You never know when they're going to come in handy."

"What else do you have in there?" Sara asked as she peered at his kit. "Many wonderful things," Greg said mysteriously. "I need a verb."

Sara turned around to face front again. A grin quirked up the corners of her mouth. "To arrive," she said. "Speaking of which, Grissom, when will we? Arrive, I mean. At this crime scene. Shouldn't we have been there by now?"

"We're almost there," Grissom said. Sara looked around, her smile fading. All she could see was desert, interrupted only by the thin ribbon of unpaved road and scattered rock formations. "Are you sure?" she asked slowly. "It looks pretty empty out here. I don't see any other police vehicles. Or any vehicles at all, for that matter." Come to think of it, she hadn't seen anything but desert for awhile.

"Sara," Grissom assured her, "I know where we're going, and we'll be there soon."

"I'm calling Brass," Sara announced. "To let him know that we'll be right there." _And to ask for directions, _she thought. She pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open._  
No Service_ flashed across the screen.  
"Uh, Grissom," she said. "We're out of cell phone range."  
Grissom pulled his own phone out and received a similar message. He grimaced and adjusted his glasses.

"Give me an adjective," Greg called, oblivious.  
"How about 'lost,'" Sara suggested, staring incredulously at Grissom.

He spared her a withering glance.

Fifteen minutes of bumpy back road driving and three rounds of Mad Libs later, Sara had had enough.

"Grissom," she said, her voice brimming with frustration. "Why don't you just admit it? We're lost. We're completely, thoroughly, and totally _lost_." Grissom stared ahead at the dusty desert road. "We are _not_ lost, Sara. I know where we are."

"Oh really," Sara retorted. "Well then, would you care to enlighten me? Because I'm pretty sure that I saw that same rock formation twenty minutes ago, which would mean that we just drove in a big fat _circle_."

"I think the rock formations all look the same," Greg piped up from the back seat. "That's probably not the same one."

"Look," Grissom said, pointing at the simple GPS mounted on the dashboard of his Tahoe. It showed location, but didn't display maps or directions. "We're at latitude 36.67, longitude 114.70, 2,045 feet above sea level, and traveling northeast. As I said, I know exactly where we are."

"Great, Grissom," Sara said, nodding. "The only problem is, you have to have something to _relate_ our location to. Do you happen to know the exact latitude and longitude of the crime scene we're trying to find?"

Grissom didn't reply, but his forehead furrowed slightly.

"Uh huh," Sara said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Do you at least know which road we're on?"  
"Well," he replied. "We were on highway 93. After the exit we turned right onto a county access road."

"_Which_ county access road?"

Grissom paused.

"Maybe you should get the map," he admitted finally.

"You've got one?" Sara asked. "Of course," he replied patiently. "It's in the glove compartment."  
"Could've used that before," Sara mumbled, and popped the compartment. She drew out a much-folded, stained map with soft, well-thumbed corners. Dubiously she turned it over. "This is the only map you have?"  
"It's the only one I need," Grissom said. "It shows all of Clark county." Sara shrugged and gingerly opened the map. Her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement as she turned it this way and that, attempting in vain to figure out which way was up.

"This map sucks. It's like twenty years old," she complained finally. Grissom glanced at her in protest. "It is not," he said defensively. Sara peered suspiciously at the date printed on the bottom of the map. "I take it back. 1979. It's _twenty-six _years old. Look at this. It's ripping down the creases!" She helplessly tried to refold the map as it practically came apart in her hands.

"Put some duct tape on it," Greg suggested helpfully from the back. "Here, there's some in my kit."

"I'll have you know," Grissom said, keeping his eyes on the bumpy dirt road, "That I've used that map many times, and it's always gotten me where I needed to go." Sara shot him an evil look. "Something needs duct tape," she muttered under her breath. "But it's not the map."

"What was that?" Grissom asked quickly. "Nothing," Sara replied with doe-eyed innocence. "Maybe you should let me drive." "Sara," he huffed. "Just try to read the map, will you?"

She narrowed her eyes at him.

Then Sara hit the button on her door control panel, cranked down the window, and casually tossed Grissom's map out onto the road.

Grissom slammed on the brakes. The Tahoe skidded to a halt and idled as he glared at Sara. "It's no good," she said with an easy shrug. Without a word, Grissom put the SUV in park and went to retrieve his map. It had disintegrated into several pieces, which he collected and shuffled together. When he returned to the SUV, Sara was buckled into the driver's seat, wearing her sunglasses and a smug grin.

She chucked a thumb at the passenger seat.  
"Going my way?" she asked sweetly. "Hop in, handsome."

He sighed in defeat, trudged around to the other side of the Tahoe, and climbed in.

Trying his best to be unimposing, Greg meekly handed Grissom a fat roll of duct tape.

_Continued in part 2_


	2. Part 2

**Author's warning: The silliness only gets worse in part 2. You've been warned!**

_Beeep-beep-bleepety-bip-beeep-bip-biiiiip-beep-bop-beep-beeeep …_

"Greg!" Grissom all but shouted. "If you must play that gameboy, then at least turn off the sound!"

Looking insulted, Greg hit the sound button on his gameboy. The beeping mercifully ceased. Grissom turned back around, rubbing his forehead.

The Tahoe roared down the desert road. Sara leaned forward at the wheel, as though she could get them back to civilization by sheer force of will. "Okay," she muttered to herself. "When in doubt, retrace your steps. We turned left onto this road, and before that it was a right…"

Grissom examined his newly duct-taped map. "This must be County road 47," he said. "It cuts away from the main access road and goes southeast." Sara glanced at the GPS. "Okay, she said. "But I turned around. So why are we going _southwest_?" Grissom raised an eyebrow and lowered the map. "I told you that thing was useless," Sara said. She put the pedal down and the Tahoe kicked forward, dust spitting into a cloud behind it.

"Sara," Grissom said nervously as he was jounced in his seat. "Don't you think you're going a little fast?" Sara's face reddened and she stared ahead, concentrating on the road. "I'm hoping we'll find a gas station or something soon," she admitted. "I kind of have to go to the bathroom."

Greg snickered from the back seat.

Sara shot him a dirty look in the rearview mirror. "Zip it, Greg," she said, "Or you'll be walking back."

"Jeez," Greg sulked. "Everyone's so flippin' cranky around here. We'll find our way to a main road eventually. Why can't you two just chill?" Grissom turned around again. "Did you just suggest that I 'chill?'" Greg paused his game and reclined with his feet across the bench seat of the Tahoe, hands clasped languidly behind his head. "It's a mindset, Grissom. Just be Zen, and everything will work out in the end."

"Ah-_hah_!" Sara crowed triumphantly. Grissom's head snapped around. "What?" he asked. "Look," she replied, pointing. "A sign. An actual road sign. It should tell us where we are." She pulled to a stop next to a small brown sign.

"Oh no," Sara groaned, taking a closer look. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Shotgun blasts," Grissom observed analytically. "Twelve gauge, maybe. Buckshot obliterates the printing. Probably some local yokels who have nothing better to do than drive around and shoot at road signs."

"Wow," Greg said, leaning forward, impressed. "You can't make out any words at all. They really did a number on it, didn't they?"

"It's a felony offense to tamper with or damage government property," Grissom commented.

"Fabulous," Sara said. She slammed her foot back down onto the gas pedal. The Tahoe leaped ahead, and Greg's gameboy went flying. "Hey!" he yelped. "I hadn't saved that game!"

"Sorry, Greggo," Sara said. But if I don't find a bathroom soon, there's going to be trouble."

"If you didn't drink so much bottled water," Greg replied, feeling around under his seat for the gameboy, "you wouldn't have this problem."

"I read a study that said people who drink ten glasses of water a day live an average of seven years longer," Sara tossed back. "You may live seven years longer than me," Greg retorted, "But you'll have spent all of those seven years in the bathroom, _peeing_."

"Excuse me," Grissom interrupted. "This is fascinating, but can we focus on the task at hand, please?"

Suppressing a grin, Sara turned back to the road. "You're the boss," she said. "Hey Greg, how do you think we should find our way back?"

"Well," Greg answered half-jokingly, "We could 4x4 it. Just head straight west, and sooner or later we'd have to hit the highway." Sara's eyes gleamed. "That might be fun," she said softly. Grissom nervously observed her intrigued expression. "Not a good idea," he said swiftly, glaring at Greg. "Just stick to the roads please, Sara."

"Hey," she said. "Give Greg a break. He's not the one who got us lost in the first place."

"You know," Grissom replied testily, "Technically, nothing is ever _lost_. According to the laws of physics, it's impossible. Every physical thing that exists in this time and space has mass, and cannot simply vanish. It can be converted to another form, or it can be misplaced, but it can't be lost."

"So what you're saying is that we're not lost," Sara said.  
"Temporarily misplaced," Grissom corrected.  
"OK then," she said. "Greg's not the one who _misplaced_ us."

"Would you two _stop_ it?" Greg asked, exasperated. "You're either going to kill each other or have some weird freaky make-out session, and I don't want to be present during either of those scenarios, thank you very much." Sara turned red again. Grissom took off his glasses. They stopped sniping and pointedly avoided looking in each other's direction. Greg smirked and tucked his gameboy back into his kit.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, until Sara finally eased the Tahoe to a halt next to a particularly large rock formation. "Why are we stopping?" Greg asked. Sara sighed. "I can't wait any longer," she replied. Shooting a glance at Grissom, she pocketed the keys to the SUV and stepped out. To her surprise, Grissom opened his door, as well. "What are you doing?" Sara asked, alarmed. Grissom looked chagrined. "As long as we're stopping," he replied. "I could use the…facilities…as well."

Greg let out a snort of laughter.  
"Quiet, Greg!" Sara and Grissom snapped in perfect unison.  
Greg choked and nearly doubled over with mirth.

Sara looked daggers at Grissom. "You go on that side, and I'll go on this," she huffed, and stomped off around the rocks. Grissom stared after her a moment, then made his way in the other direction.

Sara arrived back at the SUV first.

"Feel better?" Greg quipped from the driver's seat.  
"Greg," Sara said. "Are you wearing my sunglasses?"  
"I think they look better on me," Greg replied.  
"You are not driving," Sara said firmly.  
"Greg?" Grissom asked, coming around the rocks. "Are you wearing Sara's sunglasses?"  
"He's not driving," Sara informed Grissom.  
"Why not?" Greg asked.  
"Well, for one thing," Sara answered, crossing her arms over her chest, "You don't have the keys."

Greg held up a set of keys, jingled them with a smile, and slipped one into the ignition. The Tahoe started smoothly. Grissom gaped at Greg. "Where did you get a key to my Tahoe?"  
"Well, it's not technically yours," Greg said. "It's the department's. I pulled a few strings here and there…" he shrugged mildly. "I have a key to every CSI Tahoe."

"Greg…" Grissom said warningly.  
"Look," Greg replied. "You've both had a turn driving, and we're still no closer to finding this crime scene. What harm would it do to let me try?"

Sara and Grissom exchanged a glance.

"Shotgun!" Sara called quickly.

_Concluded in part 3 _


	3. Part 3

**Author's note: My goofy spree had to come to an end sometime. Hope you've enjoyed it.**

Greg slipped a CD into the Tahoe's stereo. "Driver chooses the music," he declared. "Universal law."

Tinny synthesizer music spilled out into the SUV as Greg put it in gear and headed down the desert road. Grissom tilted his head to the side. "What is this?" he asked, leaning forward from the back seat with eyebrows raised. "It's the Napoleon Dynamite soundtrack," Greg said with a grin.

"Ugh," Sara groused. "That is such a dumb movie."  
"What are you talking about?" Greg asked, looking shocked. "It's brilliant. Cutting edge. It's going to usher in a new generation of comedy films."  
"I agree," affirmed Grissom. "An instant classic."  
Sara rubbernecked around. "You saw Napoleon Dynamite?" she asked.  
"Twice," he replied congenially.

Sara decided not to say anything more. She reached for her bottle of water.

"Hey!" she exclaimed. "My water's empty!"  
"I dumped it out," Greg said. "You're cut off, Sara."  
"We never should have let him drive," Sara sighed to Grissom, shaking her head. "Now he thinks he's in charge of everything."

Grissom reclined, hands clasped behind his head. "Don't look at me," he said. "This back seat seems to inspire a certain 'Zen' attitude. In fact, I may just be up for some Mad Libs." He reached over and opened Greg's kit. Grissom's eyes widened in disbelief as he sorted through the contents. "A Norwegian-English pocket dictionary… Bubble Tape… a pair of socks… Cigar Aficionado magazine? Greg, how do you fit any equipment in here?"

"Hey!" Greg protested. "Stay out of my kit!"  
"Bet he has porn in there," Sara grinned, twisting in her seat.  
"Don't make me stop this car," Greg threatened.  
"Did you know that a Cuban in Havana has broken the Guinness World's Record for the longest cigar?" Grissom asked. "It's 62 feet."  
"Let me see that," Sara said, reaching back.

"Greg," Grissom said as Sara leafed interestedly through the magazine, "As much as I find the contents of your kit intriguing, I would also like to eventually locate this crime scene. So what's your plan?"

"I'm getting to it." Keeping one hand on the wheel, Greg reached down to the police scanner that sat below Grissom's GPS. "What are you doing?" Sara queried, looking up. "Setting this thing to CB," Greg answered. He turned down the music and picked up the CB microphone. "Breaker one-nine, breaker one-nine," he drawled into it. "This is DNA Daddy out of Divorce City, sending out a mayday to any driver, come back."

Grissom and Sara stared at him, their mouths hanging open. Greg offered a nonchalant shrug. "My uncle Mike's a long-haul trucker. Taught me everything I needed to know."

The CB crackled to life. "_DNA Daddy!_" came a rugged male voice. "_This is the Beefmeister. That's a ten roger on your mayday. What can we do you for?" _"Hey there, Beefmeister," Greg said into the CB. "I've got a 10-17 here. My friends and I are unsure of our twenty, over."  
"_Don't you have a GPS? Come back."_  
"We do indeed. But that's a negatory on map capabilities. We're at latitude 36.70, longitude 114.90, and traveling southwest on an unpaved road, over."  
"_Don't tense, DNA Daddy. We've got you covered. Play dead while we check the GPS." _

There was a pause. "What on earth did all that mean?" Sara asked in a fascinated voice.  
"He's going to get back to us," Greg replied, grinning.

"_Hey DNA Daddy, looks like you're on access road 43." _Came the voice. "_Head on full bore until you get to a four-way junction. Do you copy?"_  
"Here Sara," Greg said, handing her the microphone. "I need both hands to drive. Ask him what we should do when we get to the junction."  
"Me?" Sara asked, eyes wide. "I don't know the lingo!"  
"It's all right," Greg said. "Just ask."  
"Uh… Mr. 'Beefmeister'?" Sara said reluctantly into the microphone, feeling ridiculous. "'DNA Daddy' here wants to know what we should we do when we get to the junction."

"_Well hello, foxy voice_," Came the reply. "_What're you doing ridin' with an ankle-biter like DNA Daddy_?"  
"I work with him," Sara replied with a smile. "That's all."

Greg put on an expression of mock-hurt.

"_What's your handle, sweet thing?"_ The CB crackled.  
"My handle?" Sara squeaked. "Ummmm…."  
"_If you don't have a handle, gorgeous, I'd be happy to give you one_. _Come back_."

Eyes pinned on Sara, Grissom grunted, looking discontent. Sara glanced back at him and her smile widened. "I'd love you to give me a handle," she flirted into the microphone.

_"My kind of woman! All right, I'm thinking you sound like a Little Darlin'."  
_"Thanks," Sara said, gaining confidence. "So what should we do when we get to that junction?"  
"_Make a right, Little Darlin'. Then another right when you get to a fork in the road. That'll take you straight to Highway 93, over." _  
"You're the best, Beefmeister," schmoozed Sara, fully aware that Grissom was still watching her.  
"_Eighty-eights, Little Darlin'. Follow the stripes home." _  
"Uh… thank you?"  
"_Beefmeister over and out." _

"Well," Sara said suavely, hanging up the microphone. "He was nice."  
Grissom took off his glasses, trying his best not to look jealous and failing miserably.  
"He sure was," Greg grinned. "Little Darlin'." He turned up the music.

Twenty minutes later the Tahoe pulled slowly up to the elusive crime scene.

Brass walked down toward the SUV, arms outstretched in supplication as Sara, Grissom, and Greg climbed out, hauling their kits. "Hey!" he called. "Where the hell have you been? We've been waiting here for two hours! Did you get lost?"

"We weren't lost," Sara admonished. "We were temporarily misplaced." She smiled as she walked past him toward the taped-off scene.  
"Yeah," Greg said. He hustled after Sara, pulling out his camera. "Until I un-misplaced us. And you're welcome, by the way."  
Grissom said nothing, but shrugged and raised an eyebrow at Brass as he walked after Sara and Greg.

Brass shook his head, wandered down to their Tahoe and peered inside.

"Hey, all right!" He said, reaching through the open window. "Mad Libs!"

_The End _


End file.
